


you gotta go there to come back

by mooselin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock-centric, Vignette, everybody's miserable sorry, unrequited love!John Watson, unrequited love!Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooselin/pseuds/mooselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sent away -- <i>'and I've grown a lot since we last spoke'</i></p><p>(in which the last "twist" never happened, and sherlock is indeed sent away for his actions at the end of s3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm sorry if I never listened back

  


sherlock/john, background mary/john  
canon through all of s3 except for the last ridiculous "twist"  
notes: not a pleasant fic, sorry. inspired by the utter perfection that is stereophonics' 2003 album 'you gotta go there to come back' especially 'rainbows and pots of gold' and 'i'm alright (you gotta go there to come back)' so let that go ahead and be your angst warning right there. main and chapter titles come from them. don't know how many parts yet, sorry, but yes i do know the ending and do know it won't be that long. sorry again.

* * *

 

_I'm sorry if I never listened back_

-

John says, “it's fantastic, actually” but sounds as though he's in mourning.

(the shredded remains of one cheese-filled ravioli rest beneath the still tongs of his fork)

Sherlock says, “insipid” and the world fills the space between them.

The candle's frail light struggles between them, clings to life despite Angelo's impressive air conditioning system, threatens to die too many times to count but returns each time. His mobile isn't distracting him well enough, let John think it's the display only two tables away.

—both in their late thirties, professionals, one in education, the other working in programming, old and experienced enough to know better but smiling at one another as they talk despite it serving their conversation no purpose, him focused on some story about his students' field trip, her listening not because she must but because his enjoyment causes her own—

On the other side of their own table, a muted sigh, forced amusement: “Well, at least you're not speaking loudly enough for them to hear.”

(on the other side of their own table, badly hidden judgment and an edge of bitter emotion, and _how do I forget that this is what you are?_ and yes, yes, how _does_ he forget, Sherlock reminds him _constantly_ )

“They're old enough to know better,” Sherlock dismisses (insists).

“And you're above all that, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock is affecting his appetite, thumbs one page closed and another open.

(obvious in the way that John is picking at his meal now instead of devouring it, the way that his mood has soured to such an extent that Sherlock knows they'll only be here for sixteen more minutes)

“Relationships are an important thing for people.” Sherlock says nothing, only keeps his body averted from John's but continues to follow the unhappy motions of his fork over his plate. “Failure to thrive, Sherlock? Continuing attachment throughout life? One person offers contact, the other returns it—”

“I have been assured that I never fell victim to it.”

(a fragile awareness deep within, a nerve he had believed long gone numb— Mycroft's awful truth—)

Stillness for a moment on the other side of the table (a breath so calm it sounds _painful_ ).

Tonight marks a year since they had met, and Sherlock has not mentioned it.

Had simply suggested Italian when John had begun displaying the usual signs of hunger (later than was customary, an oddity that Sherlock adds to his moodiness over the last three days and his sleeplessness last night, that he thinks must have something to do with the latest paramour) and had been too excited when John had accepted— and then had been too startled when John had smiled, seemed delighted.

(a pointed frown had ended the smile, had brought quick relief to Sherlock's twisting insides)

“It's a fantastic feeling,” John is saying then, his voice curiously flat, and Sherlock nearly succumbs, drags himself back from the edge (ignores the contact, smothers the urge to _respond_ ) only with a force of will built after so many years with Mycroft—

(oh, his childish and clumsy attempts to _contact_ disregarded so utterly, his brother so _distant_ )

“—sharing yourself with someone else,” and John is still speaking, seems dangerously sure of himself, the parts of his body that Sherlock cannot help but see in his peripheral straightening, a soldier preparing to enter the battlefield, his voice growing steady and sure. “Knowing yourself through someone else, it's important, I didn't think it used to be” (father an alcoholic, mother neglectful— and Sherlock turns his attention from the truths of John's own damages, knows the weakness they create in Sherlock's willpower the rare times they slip his control) “but it's important, letting yourself be—”

(cracks within, and Sherlock's brain threatens to alert him to something carefully ignored, directs his attention roughly away from John— _John_ sitting apart but still so close, and John's feet had tapped his accidentally enough during their meal that Sherlock had been forced to turn away)

(a flicker of confusion in the back of his mind— why is he suddenly breathing through his mouth?)

(but then Sherlock remembers that his mind knows much better than him)

“Only idiots welcome exposure.”

A stinging silence, and Sherlock stares at the table close to theirs, despises the way their feet share the private space between them, despises the fact that they have finished their meal but have not yet left—

The candle dances dangerously between them, but stubbornly burns bright.

And then John says, “right” with a wry cheerfulness that promises Sherlock that the moment is over.

Sherlock is relieved (a feeling inside that makes him wonder if he is about to burst, a fullness of things unsaid that leaves him impossibly _hollow_ , and the confusing sensation should not even be possible) and John gets himself a box and ushers them both home with a pleasantness that burns. Once there he takes only enough time to dump the leftovers into the fridge before heading upstairs, before leaving Sherlock behind, before closing himself in his bathroom and starting his shower.

Unnecessary.

Sherlock knows for a fact that he had showered before they had left, thinks for a moment of the oddity of the decision but then finds his mind turning inward again and gratefully dismisses the thoughts.

(the leftovers are never eaten, and binned some weeks later during one of John's cleaning fits)

* * *

Several years later, Sherlock hungry for home and tired of Europe and entirely sick of his own mind, waking too harshly from a dream spun fragile from the life he had eagerly returned to but found too distant to reach in the end, the smells and sounds and too-rare _touch_ of John—

Vicious awareness gained long after it could have mattered, the brilliance of it devastating—

John had been wearing cologne that night, just a hint of the one that Sherlock had despised so but never found the ability to dismiss enough for John to never wear it (he had always breathed it in when John had headed out on a date, had found his body stealing the precious seconds it had been given to enjoy the smell, to delight in the acute awareness of _John_ that it had always triggered within him) and he had not been wearing it when he had finally come down from his shower, when he had sat for so many hours with such a stillness that Sherlock had found himself utterly desperately _alone_ —

John had washed for him, John had dressed for him, John had prepared for him—

John had prepared for the _possibility_ of him—

The truck rattles on beneath him, his mind remains strange and unfamiliar, and he clings to the blanket wrapped tight about his shoulders, breathing gone ragged as he connects memory to memory.

A breath now, strangled but deep, a childish attempt to reclaim something lost, but there is nothing.

No hint of the basic shampoo that John had always preferred, no promise of the _ridiculous_ old-fashioned cologne that John had worn so pointedly that night, no trace of John that had underlain them both.

Only sweat and blood, only dirt and oil, only himself buried within it all.

Sherlock pulls the blanket tighter around himself, and breathes through his mouth.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. you took my picture a thousand times

_you took my picture a thousand times_

-

He is gone for only a month and a half when the blog is deleted.

(two of his brother's problems solved, a third growing more dangerous)

Sherlock is devastated.

(he begins to save notes on his phone then, incidents he experiences, conversations and quotes he wishes to repeat to John, moments he aches to share with John)

He wishes for a notebook in a way he never has before.

Wishes for a pen, for paper, for the shared stillness of the flat.

(he refuses the first two as he had refused the third)

* * *

 

John paints him with words.

Words have always been calm for Sherlock, have always been lines and curves of black ink against white paper, have become black pixels lit against an ever-bright shine. The history books in the libraries he had grown up with, the newspapers filled with then-current events that he had devoured until he had found science, discovered chemistry.

For the first time in his life Sherlock becomes aware that words came from people.

(a ludicrous understanding, perfectly ridiculous, and so he never speaks it aloud)

At the age of thirty-five Sherlock begins to grasp how words create.

He works in the flat (creates) and John— creates, and Sherlock grows ever more— rattled.

Because John has no talent for flow, possesses no skill demonstrated by any of the classic authors etched into the farthest corners of Sherlock's carefully preserved memories. But his fingers tap across the keys of his computer, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, and sometimes Sherlock leans back into the cushions of the couch, closes his eyes.

Listens.

(a thought not then but later— is this what John had been doing, the times that he would relax into his chair, tilt his head back and close his eyes as Sherlock played for them?)

Listens to words spill from the depths of John's mind through his hands, from the crossroad of thought and technology, from their shared memories, their shared experiences.

He reads the blog because he cannot help himself but always takes care to read it only when he's alone because he so wishes deep down that he could restrain himself.

John describes him with words, with sentences, with entire paragraphs.

John spends long minutes of effort sitting with a thumbnail at the corner of his mouth as his cursor blinks on the open document— Sherlock looks up those times, finds often that the doctor is studying him with impossible wariness, a strange uncertainty.

Sherlock finds that John's Sherlock has favorite foods and favorite films and favorite songs and favorite books that always seem to match his own, discovers with a growing surprise that John's Sherlock dislikes many of the things he dislikes.

This is the Sherlock on the blog, and John describes him.

Tall and slim, or slender, very often lean but never skinny, never thin. His hair is dark, black or coal or sable, shaggy sometimes and curly others, only messy at times and (somehow enjoyably) tousled or disheveled others. He has pale skin, and wrists that John has described more than three times at last count, and slim fast fingers that John describes even more than than his eyes and oh, oh, John pays attention to the man's eyes.

John lets the world know the specifics with no hesitation— sometimes his eyes are only sharp or intelligent or curious or probing, but other times they seem reminiscent of lightning. They are piercing, dangerous, and yet they are delighted, amused, alight.

Pale eyes, but not only pale. At times merely silver or gray but other times reminding John of ash or of stone, making the doctor think helplessly of metal, of steel and of iron.

Sherlock finds there are a variety of blues and greens in the descriptions of his eyes, promises of distant storms and early spring mornings, hints of the earth and of the sky.

This man is funny but not irritatingly so.

This man laughs and makes John laugh, seems to delight in the sharing of that laughter, sits awake sometimes with John and they exchange rather awful jokes, agree openly that they should stop but only enjoy themselves more, end up giggling like two lunatics until they tire themselves out, until they quiet and share one last pot of tea, until they part for the night.

John to his room, this man named Sherlock to his own.

(this parting is described often, this Sherlock drawing back, away, from John)

(John seems particularly obsessed with describing this Sherlock's closed bedroom door)

The world discovers this man through John, sees him through his eyes and through his words, through the fumbling sentences that his surgeon's fingers piece and pin and tangle into exquisite being.

The world seems to love this man.

(in Sherlock's heart, an old certainty no longer definite)

* * *

 

A thread of fire through the haze.

(touch)

There is a flex of strong fingers through fabric and Sherlock's body is not capable of very much at all but his mind flares for just a moment into awareness.

(a flash of light, of consciousness, of realness—)

Severely intoxicated as he is, his mind catches the moment, imprints it desperately.

Because the moment's contact, quickly withdrawn as it was, is still a thousand times better than he could have imagined in the years since their meeting, is still _more_.

(his body is in a haze)

“I don't mind.”

The words are far away but all too close, and John's voice will stay with the memory.

(Sherlock will think of it much more often than will be healthy or enjoyable for him)

(he cannot care)

* * *

 

(sometimes)

(but only sometimes, only rarely, only in moments and seconds)

(but sometimes)

(sometimes)

(sometimes Sherlock rolls away from John to burrow into the back cushions with his arms locked around himself and his legs drawn up to his middle, listens to the clicking of John's fingers across the keys, listens to John's lungs draw in air, release it, draw it in again)

(a thought he always has in these moments, helplessly— this is their shared air)

(but sometimes)

(John breathes and types, breathes and types, and Sherlock creates the movement in his mind, pictures the way that John's fingers move and move and move again, and move again still. one key after another after another, and there is something stirring inside Sherlock in these moments, a liquid heat that he can recognize but cannot think of a reason to dismiss)

(too good, too wonderful)

(he knows the firm press of the doctor's fingers against his skin, had memorized too easily the callouses and the old scars, can bring to the fore of his mind the warmth that John's body always seems to radiate no matter what happens to be going on around them)

(quick fingers on clicking keys)

(a thought, dangerous but impossible to avoid— quick fingers typing across pale skin)

(contact)

(touch)

(quick fingers etching him into his own flesh, folding him into his own body)

(John)

(callouses against the soft skin of his ankle, his calf, the sensitive spot behind his knees and then a thumb sweeping along the inner curve of his lower thigh, his upper thigh, fingertips brushing higher to tease the juncture of his groin, dip inward)

(his own fingers are locked into his arms)

(his cock is heavy, is aching)

(but a lifetime of control serves him moderately well)

(and it's only sometimes)

(but 'sometimes' is so intense when he allows it to happen, so debilitating even without an orgasm, without a release after such a build, that he falls asleep in the midst of his haze, blacks out in the space between his own desperate need and John typing behind him)

(he always wakes hours later, long after John has headed off his own bedroom, and staggers too carefully into his bathroom, strips, climbs too carefully into the shower)

(he washes too slowly, too carefully, dries himself too slowly, too carefully)

(rolls into his bed, into his sheets, and breathes deep as if searching for something)

(there is nothing but his own scent waiting)

* * *

 

He saves hastily typed notes about the dog picking through the garbage nearby to his phone, hunkers down into his coat and his scarf, and doesn't think.

Instead he finds himself vaguely inhabiting the city currently around him.

(they are blurring all into one already)

(it's all even worse the second time around)

Sherlock doesn't know, cannot very much care.

(John likes dogs as much as Sherlock does)

He digs his phone out again, reconsiders the note once he finds and opens it.

'Dirty' becomes 'ragged,' an extra sentence is added near the end.

Sherlock takes a quick picture that he will never show to John, attaches it to the note that John will never read.

(will never get the chance to read)

(will never be given the chance to read)

Turns away to search for a trash can near the closest restaurant.

 


	3. and I've grown a lot since we last spoke

_and I’ve grown a lot since we last spoke_

-

An early memory, and Sherlock is so small that the world feels small along with him:

Mycroft is removing Sherlock's small hands (small and useless, small and powerless) from his sleeve, shaking his head as he stands, evades Sherlock's frustrated reach.

(alone in the nursery, Mycroft with his books, Sherlock aware of the distance between)

“No,” he grumbles and twists his wrist free when Sherlock grabs for him again, and _there_ , sounding close by but somehow far away a toddler is crying but Mycroft looks confused, unsure, disgusted by the situation but sure he has to do something—

This will be the way of things until Sherlock makes his escape in young adulthood, begins the risks and the danger and the cocaine, begins Mycroft's punishment (begins his own punishment because there, deep inside, an ugly fear that festers, that eats at him).

(surely there had been a reason)

* * *

 

He's always tired now, always tired and always hungry, but he struggles to keep an appetite.

So he breaks off pieces of food and puts it into his mouth because it seems too tiring to lift much more than a bit at a time to his mouth, chews longer than he needs to and swallows only when he remembers to swallow. He doesn't let himself drink tea even when he has access to it, will not drink tea again because even tea makes the hurt come on.

Before John tea had been only tea— now tea is something John had made him.

But he feeds himself, bathes himself, stays in motion because he suspects he will be unable to get started again if he gives into his lethargy, but he is always tired.

When he does not stay active, has no reason to _move_ , he sleeps.

(sometimes he dreams of Lestrade and of Mrs. Hudson, of Molly, even of Donovan)

(sometimes he dreams of John and of Mary together, dreams of half-John)

(sometimes he dreams of Mary, dreams of the familiar something in her gaze that he cannot put into words, dreams of her skilled hands and her hard smile, and thinks that he still quite likes her even if— even if—)

He finds himself sure that he knows someone like her, but he's so tired now.

Tired and busy, and incapable of much more than the basics of his existence.

(but he always dreams of John)

* * *

 

Physical touch, tender and firm, contact at his wrist, his throat, his heart within its cage.

One of the moments of contact that they had allowed themselves, Sherlock sees now.

John as doctor and Sherlock helpless, The Woman growing distant as his mind struggles, reels, as his body finds itself experiencing its strongest chemical in quite some years.

John above him, John's voice in his head, his thoughts, the words falling away but John bleeding deep, a battered gold that still reflects the light into Sherlock— and darker reds beyond— and now deeper blues, not the openness of skies but the heaviness of nighttime rivers and ponds, of the sea rolling back-forth-back to greet and announce a coming storm.

“Sherlock” he hears and his body shudders, shudders again and then again.

(and he is not that person anymore, surely John knows, surely John _knows_ )

(the body feels nothing, the memory—)

(he _hurts_ )

(the last withdrawal in Lestrade's flat, his wife irritated but Lestrade unshakable, the last and the worst and if Lestrade had gone some days without any sleep they never speak of it)

His palace is a thing of black and white, of words and pages, of information, of fact— but John rolls through, sinks into walls, into floors, rushes up to lick the ceiling—

But no, no, no somehow the colors are already here, have been bleeding in before this, before fingers at his wrist, at his throat, at the cage he keeps carefully locked—

“It'll be okay” the colors and the deep promise and Sherlock blames the drug when his head clears some hours later, blames a cigarette craving that _hurts_ more than it should—

He blames the Drug, and then he blames The Woman.

Because the alternative is not acceptable.

(because John's voice, his color reaches Sherlock from within, from the depths of the cage)

* * *

 

The first time he is gone, the time that Moriarty steals him so successfully from John, from Lestrade and from Mrs. Hudson, the first time John seems to follow him.

John never fully leaves him as he travels, a weight he could not remove even if he should commit himself to the act, and so Sherlock does not fight it but also doesn't worry.

(not entirely)

Because he will be returning to England as soon as possible, because he has plans already for what he will do when he returns, because John is waiting, because they are all waiting but _John_ is waiting for him, John is _waiting_ , and Sherlock will return to John as promptly as he is able to with the situation as it is.

Because as he had realized on the rooftop: he does not want to leave.

Because he had already come up with his plans but the actuality had been entirely devastating to his sense of self, of reality, of all that he is— forced to leave John.

Because nothing can keep him from John, and John has proven that nothing will keep him from Sherlock, and there is nothing that he will not be capable of fixing once he is back.

Because there is a strange lightness inside him that is not pleasant, a _lack_ of something that he had not realized was even there before St. Barts but finds himself all too aware of while he is gone the first time.

Then he comes back, and the lack becomes physical, debilitating.

(and then he understands)

(has a name for the loss, the abscess, the tidy wound that cannot seem to heal)

And then he leaves again.

* * *

 

(something inside him, tangled up with everything else that John creates in him, that John draws from the cage, dark and awful, vicious, hateful)

* * *

 

John's face, his eyes, the emotions warring within the cage of his body—

The tarmac seems endless and empty beyond them, the space around them fraught, the world seems white and black and gray to Sherlock, seems to have become a blur, a haze.

Understanding that Sherlock has never allowed himself, a clarity he finds hateful—

His doctor has created a fine cage of his own body, of his shoulders, of his anguished face.

(is he waiting?)

(is Sherlock?)

(something that cannot be given by either, only by the allowance, the exposure)

But the time for exposure has passed, things have ended, things have been lost.

(John could not want him anyway)

Sherlock thinks, the endless palace of his mind buried beneath the weight that is this impossible man of rushing red and stillest blue, with the old gold that still brings light: _yes, I want this, yes, let me have this, yes, this can be mine—_

But John watches him, waits, and the moments are an eternity that he cannot reach.

It is not offered, will not be offered, cannot be offered now, things have changed—

(John watches, John waits, balanced strangely between the prison of his body and the open space around Sherlock, the space between, the space Sherlock understands)

The colors have gone, have stained him but have left him far behind.

Sherlock has learned from death and life and death again, has been gifted and has been cursed because Moriarty has burnt his heart not out but deeper in.

Ignorance has been taken, has been stripped away— his pain is now his own.

He understands now, that his heart beats within him and without, two parts that he grieves but accepts will never join.

(he _hurts_ )

A glint of a question in John's murky eyes, a flash of a desire to push, to act, to press—

(the plea beneath the uncertainty, what he wants— _reach for me_ )

But Mary waits beyond them, the cage of her body carrying something precious that Sherlock cannot help but feel the colors of already, this unborn half-John with her whorls of softer gray and blue, her splashes of green that hide the dark brilliance of her parents.

(startling that her first glints of color have already stained his mind)

(on the rooftop, years before, he had chosen John for John)

On the tarmac, he chooses John for John.

(something bitter is rising inside him, a strange feeling that he can't yet identify)

( _“why is it always_ my _fault?”_ )

(it will come to him much later)

* * *

 

Mary states, the fear in her heart such an obvious tragedy, the ruthlessness in her love something he recognizes without understanding how— “I will never let that happen.”

(it's all for the best)

(and Sherlock had been _gone_ )

And Sherlock clings tighter to a decision that seems clumsy and only partly formed—

(but it's all for the best)

(and Sherlock had been _gone_ )

John Watson deserves someone that will fight for him, that will sacrifice for him. Deserves one that will risk and that will grow, that will learn from their mistakes and never hesitate to call John on his own, deserves a mix of softness of and of hardness, of heart and of mind. John deserves honesty, compassion, intelligence. Deserves all that he could want.

(“there is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening”)

Mary is all of that, all of that and more, and John wants her as well.

(and Sherlock _had been gone_ )

* * *

 

The first bitterness that will begin to rise only on the tarmac— Mary is blood and death and a shot that should have killed and _had_ , Mary is brutal honesty and quiet lies, Mary is all heart. It is old, and bruised, and perhaps as brittle as Sherlock's own.

(more brittle, perhaps?)

But.

(or simply more desperate?)

But.

(an odd suspicion inside, a spark igniting the bitterness, an unease that picks at him until he reaches up to brush the bullet wound with a finger— and he wonders in the nights if John's voice echoes from inside her heart, or if she simply hears the tune and follows along)

* * *

 

His sleeping mind creates images— moments that had happened and moments that never would, exchanges and conversations that could have been different and never will.

Sherlock dreams of how close John's body had been to his own for so many months, how their bodies had shared air for so long and yet never fully joined, how John had always responded to everything he had nagged for, whined for, asked for.

Now, in his memories—

How acute John had been in his awareness of Sherlock's own body, the times Sherlock had caught the flick of a glance across the flat, the press of the tip of John's tongue to his barely-opened mouth, the way his fingers had flexed on his leg and then relaxed again.

He wonders if John has any idea of all that had never happened.

(Sherlock doesn't know if John even knows)

(it makes it hurt even more)

* * *

 

A truth that Sherlock pieces together but refuses to _understand_ for so many years—

Mycroft had been born this way, an impossibly calm child with sharp eyes and a lulling voice, a mind too great to be contained within a body that cannot possibly match it (bits of memory that Mycroft denies, that Sherlock cannot even summon enjoyment of— his brother swerving from one weight to the next, sick from food or from lack of food) and oh, Sherlock's disdain for his own body is louder, certainly, but it was taught by the best.

Nothing really to do with their parents, with their travels, with Sherlock because his brother had been born this way, ruthlessly pleasant and comfortably hollow, and there is never any sign of a loss, of a need, of desire or fear or _any_ spark of life.

But deep inside, the fear sitting still and certain— there must be a reason.

(a reason he is ignored, resented, so carefully handled with such confusing disdain)

Mycroft has always insisted that all things have a reason (it is not until Sherlock has lost all things that he begins to realize that his brother is not speaking the words to him).

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes from another dream, and his body is still.

_"Because you chose her."_

His mind is blank, empty, the shock of the awareness debilitating.

_"Why is it always my fault?"_

Bits and pieces of him drift back too slowly, and then take even longer to fit together.

_"Because you chose her."_

Sherlock breathes slowly, breathes deeply, breathes and _hurts_ , breathes and aches for John, and wishes that things could be different and knows with utter certainty that they never will be and finally touches the anger, the bitterness, and lets it touch him back.

(it will be some time before he understands more)

(by then the anger will ease)

(or maybe)

Maybe it eases because he understands more.

 

* * *

 

(but for now)

The third to last exchange between Mycroft and himself, a single message sent after hours of Sherlock successfully avoiding his calls, his voice, the weight of his distant gaze—

_Do you even remember_  
 _what it is you're trying_  
 _to do with this outing I_  
 _sent you on?_  
 _\- MH_

Sherlock does not respond for a long time, only unlocks his phone sometimes to read the message again as he travels and rests and travels some more, finding that there are things between the words he has never noticed before.

A demand.

Fear.

(four months since he has left his doctor, since John had waited and received nothing)

After another day Sherlock finds he has no interest in making his brother wait.

He simply sends back

_I have your work_  
 _to do for you so I_  
 _suggest you leave_  
 _me be to do it._  
 _I am on limited time,_  
 _you understand._  
 _\- SH_

and puts his phone away again.

Mycroft does not contact him again for quite a few weeks.

Sherlock finds he does not care one way or another.

(something begins to work loose inside of him)

(and he continues to dream of John every night)

 

 -

_notes: no, really, there's a reason. i swear. don't look at me like that._


	4. it wasn't me using you

_it wasn't me using you_

-

 

There is an anger inside him now as he works his way through his brother's Europe.

A bitter anger at Mary and a deeper, more awful rage focused so utterly at Mycroft, and he finds himself drawing it close to himself, finds himself hoping that it will ease the simmering vicious emotion that he now realizes John has brought out in him.

He feels betrayed and hurt and _furious_ at his John, and despite the months that he has felt it brewing so intently inside him, he still feels strange and uncomfortable in the presence of it, feels small and helpless in the face of it, feels such— guilt because of it.

Because he had left John to save John, had sacrificed John for John, but he had left with the intent to come back, to return, he had never wanted to _leave_ him in the first place, and he had forced himself to be _without_ John _for_ John.

Had John not heard the truth in his words, in his voice, before he had jumped?

Had John decided to ignore it all, to pretend that Sherlock had not allowed the words to be spoken in such a way, to pretend that Sherlock had not chosen _them_?

Had John been so desperate to ignore the truth, Sherlock accepting a miserable life in the short term to prevent worse suffering that they could not have come back from?

(wouldn't John have done the same?)

(for him?)

The real fury inside him, so deep and so vicious— how could John not understand how Sherlock had been suffering for the years that he had been gone, that he had not had John?

(a new thought, startlingly intense: how dare John not see through Sherlock's lies)

 

* * *

 

 

The mustache is ridiculous.

If John insists, if he holds his ground, Sherlock will allow it— if it matters so much.

(but it shouldn't)

(it can't)

(they have to go back to how it was, to how he was before)

(before the nightmares that Sherlock hides so skillfully even from himself, before the strange hollow inside that he's losing the ability to ignore, before the excitement that beats inside him now as he stares, as he drinks the sight of his doctor in, before he _needed_ —)

John.

John.

John.

(they will pick themselves up from where they left off)

(they will pull themselves up from the sidewalk itself)

(as if nothing much has happened at all)

Sherlock's pulse is too fast, too strong, the noise becoming something like a drum.

His John is deafening him from across the room, his John with that ridiculous mustache, wearing the suit that does not fit him quite right and the expression that seems wrong—

(his face has aged)

(his body has changed)

(the world has changed—)

In the midst of the restaurant, after so many hours in preparation, after the speeches memorized and the explanations so carefully arranged, laid out, _prepared_ —

(not just _hours_ spent in preparation)

(he will not let go of John again, will not release him, he will not let this go)

Sherlock finds himself unsteady and unsure, finds himself afraid and irritable—

He is exposed, vulnerable and exposed and suddenly quite incapable of ignoring it.

 _Fine_ , he thinks, and then _yes, yes, fine_ and then he's moving, acting, drawing pieces to himself, fear burning away into excitement as he settles into his disguise.

(he has not heard John laugh in years, his memories are not enough)

They will pick up where they left off.

(it is the only possible option)

 

* * *

 

 

At fifteen, he has already decided— touch is a strange thing that seems to have no reason.

He certainly has no interest in children, in offspring, in any of himself surviving past himself, which eliminates the largest excuse for its existence for many of the human race. He does not need touch, certainly does not need to give his body even more control over him than it already has when his eyes stray so rarely but so insistently to other bodies that inhabit the space around him now that he has finally started public schooling.

(he understands now Mycroft's disdain of people but secretly wishes he could hide it as well as his brother, because no one seems to be able to tell that Mycroft really _hates_ them all and if Sherlock doesn't hate them so much as fear them, he'll never admit it)

His mother insists “but everybody needs someone, Sherlock, don't you understand?” and he only grows more irritated at his parents' constant obsession with touching him (when they are there) and with holding him (when they are there) and with even noticing him.

Because he doesn't like to be noticed by _anyone_ and he cannot help it, only feels an odd tight something in his chest that grows tighter still when people focus their attention on him, when they call to catch his attention, when they focus their eyes on him, when they try to engage him because it is— so utterly foreign.

(nothing like Mycroft)

So unfamiliar that it is threatening, so confusing the expressions on their faces.

(none of them are like Mycroft)

Sherlock wishes, rather helplessly, that he could hate them as much as his brother does.

 

* * *

 

 

Beautiful Janine, with her sweet face and her startlingly lovely voice and, at times, her curious awareness as she lays beside him in the dark but does not fondle him, does not touch him, only seems to take comfort in his presence in the moments that he lets her—

“I've had one like you before,” she says once, arugula and pasta spun onto her fork, and he dismisses it because he needs her to care much more, to desire him desperately.

(he lets her wrap herself in his shirts, and she is content)

“You're just like everybody else, really,” she says another time, fingers fanned out as she lets the paint dry and the moment is so calm that his mouth opens and his words come out, that he tells her of what he had once wanted when he had young and foolish.

“Bees?” she asks between his clipped words, his too-pleasant confession of dreams that he had learned to dismiss when he had been only a child, and sounds unsure— until she tilts her head, stares at him so closely, and the corner of her lovely mouth lifts. “No, no, maybe, they could keep you entertained, couldn't they? An entire population yours to study” and he feels his mouth crease up helplessly at her, feels something entirely too fragile respond to the first contact it has received (been allowed to receive) in years.

(she touches him constantly, the smooth pressure of her palm a startling comfort nearly as soon as he begins his work on her, and the touching only continues— fingers squeezing into the softness of his shoulder, fingers curving into the small of his back, her cheek soft and pliant against the sharpness of his collarbone when she hugs him so constantly, her lips full and strangely relaxing when she presses them to the line of his jaw when she leaves him)

He wakes once to find her sitting in John's chair, in the chair that he has been refusing to acknowledge but also refused to allow to leave his sight, and the image so infuriates him that he yanks her up before she knows what's going on, shoves her out of his way and bodily hauls the chair from the living room and where he cannot see it.

“Oh, Sherl,” she says when he returns so many minutes later (when his face shows no evidence and his body is no longer trembling, when he no longer feels like all of his insides are spilled across the flat) and frowns like a saddened primary school teacher and moves forward to wrap her arms about him, to squeeze him like he is made of glass that had not been worked correctly, and then “oh Sherl” but never brings up the incident to him.

(in the nights, sometimes, he turns so that he can lay his head upon her lap— and she always accepts him, the fabric of her work skirt pressing into his cheek as he closes his eyes and waits, and each time she lays a hand upon his head, begins to slowly move her fingers through his hair as he breathes, as he enjoys the sensation even as it _hurts_ him)

(the few times he had allowed John to touch him—)

(the few times he had allowed himself to touch John—)

(the shock of it, the weight of it, so debilitating after so long without it—)

(but Janine only ever says “it's fine” so _simply_ above him as she reads her many books on her small tablet every night because she does not sleep until very late at night, and does not stop the petting— in truth that is the only definition for what this is— until he draws away, until he does not need it any longer and she always assures, “it's _fine_ ”)

(and there is never any mocking in the back of her gaze when she speaks to him, never any hint of ridicule or distaste, and when she says so simply “it's fine, Sherl, it's all fine” he turns his mind away from how much he will miss her voice when he has finished with her)

 

* * *

 

 

In the rear of his mind, a stark clarity that has not changed in the last months—

He should be dead already.

There is no silent support this time, no hidden MI6 deployed by his brother to assist in his work, there are only the list of names and packet of pictures, only a list of his brother's own careful deductions that help his work more than he expects each time he gets them.

(and, here, a new and private admission that seems to loosen that _something_ inside him even more— Mycroft's deductions do not sting so when he does not fight them)

He is not dead already, despite his enemies' best attempts, despite his England's decision to cast him away, despite his own halfhearted desire to simply fade— and he finds himself sure that it is still John that is keeping him going day by day, night by night.

Distant John that he will never have again (that he never allowed himself to have, to even allow himself the _possibility_ of) and had accepted was not his anyway because John is Mary's, John had chosen Mary, and Mary had chosen John, and this is all.

(“because you chose her”)

But Sherlock wakes each night now, surfaces each night from a mix of blood and sweat and mental exhaustion the likes of which he has never experienced before, and feels deep inside _John_ and can only lay where he wakes and shake because it is only getting worse, only becoming more difficult, and it should be getting _easier_ now.

(drugs have always been easier the longer he has gone without them, and in his heart of hearts he has always privately considered John a far more dangerous drug than cocaine)

For the first time a full and conscious question he begins to ask himself as he cannot sleep, the first edges of it teasing the rotted remains of his old self-assurance:

_who has he spent so many years denying?_

 

* * *

 

 

He will not speak— but in these moments he also will not deny.

Beside him the reporter is as unimportant as any of the others that follow them now, that greet them at every press conference and that work so hard to hold their attention, and then they say, too excited now that they have both men in front of them— “And your relationship, Detective Holmes, your relationship with Doctor Watson?”

Tension beyond even the usual in the body beside him, John stiffening

(a fluttering inside Sherlock that is too close to pain, to _rejection_ )

at his side and yet fumbling with a response.

Flashes of light, a jerk of movement as John swings his eyes to him, pushes silently—

“Are you two in a romantic relationship, Doctor Watson?” and the words are barely out of another reporter's mouth when John responds too quickly, too hastily, is waving his arms and smiling too pleasantly and standing too stiffly at Sherlock's side—

“No,” he is saying now, and Sherlock's face still has not changed, his body had not moved, and surely that strange flutter is not back, is not stronger than before— “no, no, that's private, of course, but we're not together, we're not—”

(no, of course not)

“—like that.”

(no, of course they're not like that)

Sherlock remains silent, remains aloof, and leaves it up to John to deny all things, to deny him if he so wishes, and dismisses the flutter each time it threatens to rise up inside him.

To burst from his mouth as dangerous words that could never be taken back.

 

* * *

 

 

There is a conversation one night over dinner, Janine as always genuinely pleased to be with him, no attempts to distance herself, no push and pull, nothing unspoken in the air between them except for what she has informed him she has no interest in hearing—

“You weren't friends, you know” she says and he falters mid-role, knows without question who she is speaking of, “friends let themselves be _close_ , Sherl, and you two never let yourselves get close” and here she glances at _him_ so closely.

Sherlock can only sit silent, so strangely exposed he cannot even fight it.

(with Janine, somehow, he finds there seems to be no reason to be afraid of exposure)

And when she smiles at him in the next moment he sees just how skilled she may be at dissembling herself, sees for the first time some terrible grief that is buried deep inside—

“You and me are mostly friends,” she informs him, and reminds him again of a teacher of little children with her patience, with her calmness, with her incredible awareness— and none of the teachers he had been forced to spend so much time with as a child had ever seen him with his clarity, “but you and him, no, you were never _friends_ , Sherl.”

(and Sherlock thinks, dumbly, how much he likes her voice)

 

* * *

 

 

And then there is Turkey, and he is taken by surprise, pain and sleeplessness catching up with him in an alley when he is thinking of John and of Mary, of Mycroft, and now of Janine.

(idiotic of him)

The incident is not pleasant, short as it may be, and it takes a good hour after he's slipped away from the bodies he's left (a third, but he cannot— no—) to realize he's in shock.

(unpleasant)

When he finally surfaces fully from his own emotional turmoil he finds that he has already cleaned himself, has dressed himself, and now sits trembling in a room not his own, in a country not his own, in a life that he has begun to realize _is_ all his in the end after all.

(“why is it always my fault?”)

A message on his phone when he manages to focus his line of sight, no number needed to know it is his brother giving him no information but demanding his continued safety— and he laughs a little too loudly in the quiet and stares for some minutes at the wall.

He needs John.

(“because you chose her”)

He cannot have John.

(“everything has a reason, Sherlock”)

John is Mary's as he is Mycroft's, as he is England's, as he is everyone's but his own.

( _lie_ , some quiet voice inside him murmurs, but he can barely hear it above the cacophony of thoughts and memories, over how badly he wishes John were beside him, how desperately he wishes he were home in the flat instead of here alone)

Sherlock reaches out then, finds his fingers touching his phone, and then falters, hesitates.

Seconds tick by and he lingers, half-reaching and completely afraid, and then he shudders, blinks rapidly until his vision clears and he can see the screen as he lifts his phone and brings it to his face to delete his brother's useless demand for contact.

(“it's fine”)

His thumb moves slowly, carefully, the private number memorized and he doesn't even know if—

(“it's all fine” and he has never allowed himself to believe such lies before)

Two rings, three, and then a lovely voice, the edges of it heavy with sleep— “this is Janine” she greets smoothly, softly, and then when he jerks in a startled breath, “hello?”

Surprise, yes, but also something open, concerned, no hint of mockery or of teasing.

“Hello?” she probes, and he hears the rustle of her cotton nightgown against her sheet, hears the click of a light as she snaps it on, as she asks, “Sherlock?”

(for the first time he lets himself wonder who she had been before Magnussen had found out her secrets, before she had been hired as his assistant, and finds that he regrets his decision to kill the man even less than he already had)

Sherlock takes a breath, lets it out.

(“it's fine” John had told him then, and there had been a weight in his voice, a question)

Across the distance, across the months that have passed since the hospital, since she'd seen through him with such clarity, secured herself some fragile spot inside him— “Sherl?”

(“why is it always _my_ fault?” and no, no, oh, _John_ )

Sherlock takes a breath to stop himself but the words spill from him like a flood, and he cannot stop even as he waits for the connection to break with a last click, with her sigh of disgust or of judgment, and the shaking has finally stopped even if he is beginning to pant, to half-gasp because there are so many words coming together that he does not know where one stops and another begins—

He stumbles then, trips between one word and the next, and finds himself balanced suddenly between them, the old parts of him pushing out to stop him, to silence him, and the new (or are they the older parts, the much older parts?) urging him on—

(“you chose her” he had said, had _accused_ so calmly, and no, no, not that simple)

Across the distance, across the months that have passed since the hospital, since she'd seen through him with such clarity, secured this spot for herself—

But “it's fine,” Janine promises him, and “it's _fine_ ” and then “keep going, I'm listening—” Fumbling across the connection, rustling as she moves through her home: “I have two full containers of ice cream in the freezer, that should be enough for tonight, Sherl, trust me” and that is all he needs.

Sherlock speaks, allows the words to birth themselves, and is listened to.

 

-

_notes: making good pace on this one honestly and yes, the ending is already all done._

 


	5. I lost my way but found my track

_I lost my way but found my track_

-

 

One moment he remembers, only one out of so many others:

Sherlock is talking, as he does, and John is watching him, as John does.

There is nothing special about the moment in and of itself, as John always seems aware of Sherlock in a way that Sherlock will not admit he finds— intoxicating.

(because John is focused on him from morning until night, both when they are on and a case and when they are off, when he is happy with Sherlock and when he is irritated)

(because no one has ever been _aware_ of him in such a way)

(because no one has ever reacted to him, responded to his voice, his gaze in such a way)

The case is over and John is fiddling with the kettle but his eyes are locked on Sherlock and have been since they had returned to the flat. Sometimes his gaze drifts, drops to his hip or his wrist, lifts other times to his shoulder or his jaw, but his attention never wavers from Sherlock himself despite the fact that he is tired and hungry himself, despite the fact that he suffers from a lack of both far worse than Sherlock does.

And Sherlock would usually have changed by now out of his clothes, shifted from the state needed to conduct the Work to the state he can enjoy only with John— but John has not left the kitchen and Sherlock finds that his body is— unwilling to break John's gaze.

(certainly this addiction is not as dangerous as the cocaine)

(surely he does not have to worry about the changes it may cause in him)

John's focus has caught on the open button at Sherlock's throat, then lifts minutely to the angle of Sherlock's chin, drifts farther to slide across the jut of Sherlock's cheek.

(he remembers how he hated them as a teenager)

(how he hated them even more as a young adult)

Subtle movement in John's mouth, his jaw flexing as Sherlock lets him stare, finds himself— basking beneath the weight of John's impossibly intense concentration, and finds that the words come even easier now, his language blooming in response to John's mere presence.

(later he'd stopped allowing himself to feel anything about his cheeks— or anything else about his body— and things had been much easier since then)

John's lips shift now, push out for a heartbeat before folding back inwards, and there, just there, the quickest brush of a tongue across the bottom one before John closes his mouth very purposefully, before he fiddles more with the kettle and looks suddenly—

Angry.

The enjoyment inside him withers, dies, fades so abruptly his facial control almost slips.

(the words dry up inside him, and he feels his body again momentarily, so acutely)

Sherlock turns away then, moves just fast enough to draw away from John without offending John, and leaves the man alone with his hot water and his tea.

(if he takes too long to change, stealing extra moments by himself in the privacy of his own space to rearrange his awareness of his body, to check his facial expressions, it doesn't matter anyway since John has closed himself away by the time he comes out)

* * *

 

Perhaps.

Maybe.

Well.

There are only two people to catch his attention in his nearly forty years and neither hold his attention long enough for his body to break his control— but he purposefully deletes them (as well as he is capable) and pointedly avoids Mycroft's barbs.

(“everything has a _reason_ , Sherlock”)

All he remembers in the years that follow are the quietly masculine bodies they are bound within, the outlines of their shapes as he had watched them, but it does not matter.

These things are not for him anyway.

* * *

 

Janine says the night he calls her, so caring and yet so unyielding, “well, you didn't really give either of you a chance” and he swallows, breathes, closes his eyes against the truth.

It is one thing to feel the knowledge inside himself after so many long months.

It is quite another to have it thrust so bluntly before him.

“Sherlock?” he hears and when he hesitates, wavers— “Sherl?”

(ridiculous how the idiotic name calms him, makes his mouth twist in a half-smile)

“I— made a mistake,” he says slowly, and hears the utter disbelief in her answering sigh.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to do anything else?” she asks then and the words cut at him in their simplicity, sting like salt in a ragged wound. “I mean... you have to learn this stuff from somebody else, you know that, right?”

“I successfully educated myself in all other matters,” he manages past some tension in his chest he has never felt before, past a tightness in his throat that is utterly foreign. “Before John there was no need to focus on social interaction so it is hardly a surprise—”

“You're gay,” she informs him, and then adds, “but you already know that, yeah?” He doesn't respond, feeling oddly guilty despite the fact that Janine doesn't seem bothered. Then she continues with little fanfare, “At first I thought that maybe you just weren't very sexual but now I think that maybe nobody taught you how to do much with your body even _before_ you started to like boys” and these words, the quality of her knowing—

Sherlock realizes slowly that his hand is shaking, that his body is curled into itself.

(“everything has a _reason_ , Sherlock”)

When Janine speaks again into the silence he's found himself trapped in, when she asks so plaintively “Are you there?” and he feels his body shudder out a breath—

“Yes,” he manages through a jaw that feels stiff, and then “yes” as he catalogs the injuries he had accumulated hours before, and can feel the bits and the pieces fit together into something that he has been successfully avoiding as he chokes “yes, yes, I'm here.”

* * *

 

His body threatens awareness with John.

When he finally accepts that it will happen whether he likes it or not he learns to guide it, to twist it until he can half-pretend it is happening under his power— when he is on the couch and John is working, when he is in the shower with the knowledge that John is asleep in his bed across the distance and yet impossibly close, when he wakes sometimes in the stillness of his room and knows that John is within walking distance, touching distance—

When he is gone the first time, when he feels such urgency to return to John, he is at least far enough from anyone that he may know to half-indulge himself for the first time in his life— and maybe it will add to his anger later on, that he allows his control to slip.

(when he is alone and tired and irritated at John because he misses John this much, because it has been one year and then two years, and his body still _wants_ John's)

Because he allows it only because he is so sure things will go back to normal later.

(when he thinks of how John will be waiting for him)

Because he allows it to lessen the loss, to ease the hollow, to fill the void of John.

(and it is so little compared to what his body _wants_ but so much more than he has ever allowed before, an interaction with his body instead of merely a smothered acknowledgment, and it's dangerous and he cannot stop himself)

(and oh, the first time he is gone he weakens in the nights when he is so very alone to brush three fingertips down-up-down the line between his navel and his groin, to smooth his own palm across the base of his throat and up and then back down where John's eyes had always caught and held, closes his eyes and pictures with impossible clarity his own fingers exposing the scars and creases and lines and _flesh_ of John's body)

(and what does John's body feel like, the skin of his calf, the flex of muscle in his thigh, the scattering of pale hair across his chest?)

(he gives in these nights but never fully and here, only here, he enjoys a small success in the face of his body's furious need— he stops himself before his body can find its final release, strangles it back down in the last moments before it reaches its climax, pulls the _touch_ away just when it is most important)

Because it is all he has while he is gone and until he can go home.

(and John is waiting for him— John will be there when he returns— and _John_ )

Because he has made himself sure that everything will go back to how it was.

* * *

 

“I will never let that happen,” Mary promises with sad eyes and a flat face, and he thinks of how John loves her, thinks of how John had not waited for him, thinks of _John_.

(think of what John deserves)

(think of how badly he wishes he could make John happy)

(think of how sure he is that he could never make John happy anyway)

“There is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening,” she swears and he feels the echo of her words in himself, thinks of how despairing he had been for the years that he been gone, of how the absence of John had destroyed something inside him.

(entire walls of his palace _gone_ )

(and is he angry, is this anger burning bright when he sees them together?)

(when he thinks of John and of Mary while he had been gone)

(while he had been gone and suffering and alone without John)

Sherlock thinks purposefully of John miserable without Mary, of Mary miserable without (his) John, thinks of how much Mary loves John— and doesn't yet grasp that she does not understand what she is teaching him without meaning to.

* * *

 

(“you were just too much for him to handle” Mummy says whenever she notices Sherlock glaring at his brother throughout his life, “he wasn't really that old when you were born” and no, no he wasn't, but hadn't Mycroft been wrong from the beginning, hadn't they both _known_ and _still_ Mycroft had wound up his only certainty, his only measure, his only anchor— and oh, oh, these things are useless to _know_ after the fact)

“There's something _wrong_ with you” Mycroft states once, twice, three times (too many times for even Sherlock to count) and by the time Sherlock is a full addict he's forgotten why he's started and he's altogether too resolute not to remember.

( _there's something wrong with you_ but no, no, Mycroft does not know how to reach)

(his brother can no more reach for another person than he can reach the stars in the sky)

(Sherlock understands now— his brother only knows how to pull)

* * *

 

Janine is talking, and he feels tired and awake all at once, feels the press of fabric against his body and a stray curl against his face and the cut on his ribs throbs, and between one breath and the next he half-believes he can almost smell ridiculous cologne—

(Sherlock thinks, digs through memories, through the pain)

(realizes finally that John had never worn that cologne in Mary's presence)

Janine is talking and he tries quite sincerely to focus on her and almost can but there is so much now for him to think about, and it all hurts but it's all important, there's something _important_ here between the grief and the anger, between what he does _for_ John and what he's been so _sure_ he'd been doing for John—

“Is it possible?” he asks so slowly, so carefully, “for something to be the right thing and the wrong thing at the same time?” and knows that he can trust her answer, that she knows.

That she will tell him the truth.

(it's still fitting together inside him)

(still struggling to find its shape)

And “of course” she informs him bluntly, “of course, Sherl, people do it to one another all the time.”

(he has to wait)

(there are still pieces missing)

* * *

 

The second to last time that he will talk to Mycroft some days after Janine takes his call, responds to his need, the audible strain in his brother's voice revealing itself as a pointed refusal to admit that he is figuring the changes out already—

“I'm not high-functioning,” he informs his brother, and it has been four months since their last true exchange and he is still breathing, still living, still wanting to reach and not allowing himself because John's heart is not _about_ him, he hopes that John is still happy—

(and Mycroft had never shown him this, but now he wonders if his brother had never known this truth himself, thinks his brother could not have possibly shared this knowledge)

(for the first time Sherlock suspects he may truly love his brother)

(fully, completely, utterly, with no reason and with no fear)

(it's a new and startling and saddening realization)

His brother's immediate dismal attempt at mockery: “Well, I've always thought so—”

“I am not your sociopath.”

Space between them, space within them, a blessed space he has never known before.

Mycroft draws a breath, draws another, then another and another.

Sherlock waits, waits, waits.

(he hurts from the space that John will never fill, hurts with emotion that he had never expressed, and his mind is tired from translating so constantly a language not his own—)

“You'll be finished soon,” his brother declares in a soft voice that Sherlock has always felt as a battle cry, and the weight of the world is in his voice, and it's all nothing now.

(is he punishing himself, or Mycroft, but no, he's not, this is no punishment)

(they have all been punished enough)

“I gave up home,” Sherlock reminds him flatly, calmly, honestly— “John for John.”

No need for Moriarty now, no need for games, he has done this to himself.

It is more control than he has ever had in his life.

(but)

“You have already informed me that there is no way to bring me back even if I should discover a reason to return, Mycroft, and I have little doubt that you are aware of how much more of your legwork I have left to do anyway,” Sherlock assures him, and hangs up.

(it will be another seven months before his brother tracks him down the final time)

 

-

 


	6. I feel I want to hold you

_I feel I want to hold you_

-

Janine says, soft and blunt and curiously loving, “take care of yourself.”

The words reach Sherlock when they speak so rarely as he travels, reach through the distance to greet him, to soothe him, to push him to follow her lead.

After enduring two more months, Sherlock begins to obey.

-

There are things he will never tell anyone else.

There are desires, losses, needs.

There are thoughts.

There are fantasies.

All of them, each and every one, focused utterly on John.

Some of them, in fact, are not even sexual in nature.

(although many, yes, maybe more than a few are very much sexual)

-

His brother tries to find him in Ukraine, and Sherlock does not care.

Mycroft's devotion is not an advantage.

-

He sleeps, and dreams of John.

_why is it always my fault?_

Awake, he thinks of John even more.

_because you chose her_

-

After the fall, before he returns, the source of so many of his John fantasies:

Coming home.

They begin to fill his mind as quickly as the fall is over, gather and multiply with vicious ease as he first entertains them (silly things that exist because he allows them to) and then realizes the magnitude of how they affect (excite, unsettle, devastate) him.

He thinks of all of the impossible ways that John could find him, track him down (of course humiliating his brother in the process and how Sherlock always _enjoys_ those rare but delightful moments) and drag him back to their flat. He dreams of accidental revelations and risky experiences that would be involved in their reunion, dreams of adventures including everything from earthquakes and floods to Moriarty himself— and if there is always an undercurrent of rage from John, there is also always so much more beneath that.

It takes too many months to understand how similar each seemingly innocent fantasy _is_ , that each promises him the same dizzying mix of emotions.

Pain and grief, shock and excitement, heartache, anger— forgiveness—

(and here his fantasies do not stop but his thoughts purposefully turn away, something close to fear shifting and stirring after so many years beneath his shame, his guilt)

Because Sherlock does not think in such terms (does not allow himself).

Because he thinks of having John and not having John, cannot quite conceive in the two years that he is gone that it could be possible to both have John and yet have no _access_ to John because the concept is so very impossible for him to comprehend.

Because it is the two of them against the world, because they are together so profoundly that it does not matter that he is too afraid to go deeper, because it is enough and he does not need more anyway, because the risk is too great, the fear is too debilitating, because—

Because— because— because—

(because there's _something wrong with you_ )

-

Words that cut at him as the months pass, as he grieves, as he accepts—

_why is it always my fault?_

He thinks there had been rage in John's voice, something vicious that John always hides so skillfully from those who like to think that they know him, thinks maybe—

_why is it always my fault?_

New vague thoughts, awful and impossible to avoid, infecting the wreckage of his palace like grease and spiderwebs, the darkness in them illuminating in a way he does not expect—

_why is it always my fault?_

-

Janine says once, simple and direct, “you fell in love, Sherl” and he skirts her words even as he lives the reality of the aftermath, begins to search for himself amongst the wreckage.

But he says quietly, his own words calm in the face of his defeat, “you say it as if it matters” and she laughs, and he feels that strange pressure in his chest again.

Sherlock wants to hurt her physically, emotionally, mentally, in ways that _shock_ him to the core when she teases, “you can't bear your own mistakes, can you?”

-

One fantasy, just one of so many—

John's words vicious but his eyes so impossibly open, his body impossibly physical in Sherlock's fantasy in a way that Sherlock had never acknowledged it being in-person, everything that he is pushing so violently into the space that Sherlock has made his own.

“How could you?” Sherlock had imagined him spitting, and he would grab Sherlock by his coat, would shove him back but then follow with his own body, and “how could you do this to me?” and in this moment there would finally be a heat in the air, a pulse that he had ignored in reality but craved so desperately in his mind, “don't you care—”

And Sherlock would say nothing, would not speak.

Because he would not need to.

Because John would see through him, would realize with shock and a sudden stillness what Sherlock hides behind his flesh, would glimpse the truth of Sherlock's heart—

Because it would all be so easy once John knew.

Because it would all happen, because things would be okay then.

Because John would say “Sherlock” in a quiet wondering voice and he would know and then Sherlock's words would come to him so easily, so calmly, would leave his body and fill the space between them, would reach John now that John had already reached him—

“Yes,” John would say then, and breathe deep and shake a little, and it would be over and then he'd sigh “oh god, _yes_ ” and here Sherlock had always found himself overcome by lust and by need, would be forced to turn away from the fantasies to keep his body from coming undone.

-

It is becoming easier to eat.

His bites become larger over the next month, his body responding to taste and texture in ways familiar at first and then new and strange and yet— unoffensive. It reminds him of the nights that John had surprised him with new take-out, teased him and tormented him into trying things that he had never felt an interest in until John had shared them with him.

Several more weeks pass, and he skims fingers more firmly over his own skin as he bathes the dirt and sweat and blood from his flesh more regularly, as he closes his eyes for brief moments and feels nails and palms, the warm pressure of contact against his body.

(only a ghost of what his body has denied itself)

(still so much more than he expects)

But sleep is still difficult.

-

Home is gone a second time, John given neatly to Mary, and Sherlock's dreams are somehow far more fragile, entirely too delicate even as he cannot turn away from them.

Because there is no excitement in the fantasies his mind creates now, no thrill of risk as he imagines his own exposure at John's hands, the decision to return taken from him, the result of their judgments left for John to determine and for Sherlock to bear.

Because Sherlock has experienced his homecoming.

Because Sherlock has tasted John's anger, has glimpsed unspoken things in the back of John's devastated gaze, and the weight of lost things is— simply too great.

Because the worst has already happened.

-

There is a near-miss with his brother's people in Lithuania.

It is surprisingly easy to avoid him now that he's no longer trying quite so hard.

-

Another creation of his mind, his need, his despairing want—

The two of them on their flight home after some adventure that Sherlock had never been able to focus on long enough to string together, John tired and maybe slightly defeated in his acceptance that Sherlock had known best, that he had done what he had needed to do—

Sherlock himself feeling relieved, perhaps even— relaxed.

But John would stare at him, the lines of his grief still visible upon his face, his fingers flexing against the arms of his seat in the way that Sherlock has spent so many hours watching, the muscles in his jaw moving, moving, moving.

Finally he would say, “Sherlock” and then, with sudden sureness, “ _Sherlock_ ” and his legs would shift, the line of his spine straightening as he'd lean forward into Sherlock's space.

Claim it as his own.

Obliterate the awful uncertainty of the moment.

“You're a fucker,” he would say, and Sherlock would feel the brush of John's leg against his own, would feel the space of the world around the plane, the movement of earth so far away beneath them, but he'd stay calm as John would continue, would expose himself, would _reach_ to make contact with Sherlock—

“Please,” John would say, and his anger would be gone, and it would be over.

It would be done.

(it would be okay)

-

Sherlock acts on instinct as he skirts the cities of Russia, and discards the old brown strip of fabric he's been wearing for so many months for a scarf found in a shop on a street corner.

The color is blue, the shade dull but discernible as he curls it between his fingers.

Soft, smooth, a promise of physical comfort once allowed himself.

(memory— the way that John's eyes had always followed the quick movements of his fingers, of his wrist, the spark of interest as he'd studied the blue at Sherlock's throat— and the memory is so pure, so sharp and so clear that it does not even hurt him)

Sherlock winds it about his neck before he leaves the shop, burrows into its warmth.

-

“Your brother was here,” Janine says some weeks later, and Sherlock feels nothing in response (only wonders when he'd become a reaction instead of an action).

“He could easily find me should he decide to,” and he hears the little smile in her voice as she sighs in quiet agreement, hears the rustle of movement as she shifts in her bed.

(he wonders when he'd become the only real focus of his brother's lonely existence)

“He loves you,” she says then, almost fearless, and he breathes out, breathes in again as her words continue, as she speaks her truths, “and... and I miss you.”

Exposure.

_why is it always my fault?_

(vulnerability)

(a brokenhearted demand in the words, a harshness and a hurt that Sherlock still feels inside himself but knows now is foolish, realizes had been too quiet to survive the anger he'd needed to let go of John, to give John away, to leave John all over again)

Sherlock takes a breath.

Lets it out.

_why is it always my fault?_

Sherlock reaches up to finger blue fabric at his throat and remembers John's quiet stares and lingering silences in the comfort zone of their home, remembers how part of him had waited, waited, _waited_ for John, John, _John_.

_because you chose her_

John is too far away.

John is long gone.

Sherlock's time has come and gone and gone again.

But.

_why is it always my fault?_

Something inside him shifts, shifts again, and finally _finally_ begins to settle.

_because I never let you choose me_

Acceptance, debilitating but long in coming, and he breathes and steadies himself, breathes and grieves and blames himself even as he knows there is no longer any point because it's over now, these decisions have been made— and finally says only, “Yes. Yes, I miss you, too” and feels a weight he had not been aware of lift inside him.

Only a handful of words (so simple compared to the grief inside him) and yet.

There is a new space inside him, a void waiting to be filled.

Janine's quiet breathing reaches him across the distance, a tremble beneath the sound that promises she's more affected than she would like to be— is he smiling? yes, yes, he is smiling in the dark, crying because John is gone, because _he has lost John_ and will never get him back, but smiling— and Janine's warmth curls into him, settles into the void.

Steadies him.

Sherlock allows it.

 

-

_notes: got seriously sick for weeks and it sucked. hard-core. two more chapters, kids, and i hope it's worth all the crap i'm putting them through. promise that it makes sense. posting now while i have a second, will come back and edit a bit more later._

 


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